


More or Less an Island

by Ael_tRlailiiu



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, past Killian/Milah, peter pan is a vicious little bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ael_tRlailiiu/pseuds/Ael_tRlailiiu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(This was written before "Poor Unfortunate Soul" aired, and I would have written it a bit differently if I had known some things in that, but oh well.)</p><p>Peter Pan likes to play games. Killian Jones has survival skills and a goal. This is the tale of the good ship _Jolly Roger_, and of her captain's effort to find a way to destroy his nemesis and get out of Neverland alive. Picks up from the end of "The Crocodile," expands on the Neverland we see in S3, and uses the same OC crew members as "The Future Unseen" because why not. </p><p>"There is nothing more dangerous than a fairy tale that happens to be true." Barry Hughart, _The Story of the Stone_</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Game

**Author's Note:**

> ...The Neverland is always more or less an island, with astonishing splashes of colour here and there, and coral reefs and rakish-looking craft in the offing, and savages and lonely lairs, and gnomes who are mostly tailors, and caves through which a river runs, and princes with six elder brothers, and a hut fast going to decay, and one very small old lady with a hooked nose. - J. M. Barrie

The portal opened as a whirlpool, a gaping mouth that would have had a lesser crew refusing their orders. Killian steered the ship straight into it. The _Jolly Roger_ scudded down a nearly vertical incline toward an end none of them could see. Hurricane power howled all around, eldritch light and noise that went on and on – this was nothing like flying. Up became sideways became down.

The portal vomited them out into a sea as calm as a bath and shrank away into nothing. The sun stood low in a cloudless sky.

“All hands accounted for, captain,” Avery reported.

“And how fares our newest sailor?” Killian spared his first mate a glance, but most of his attention remained on the shore.

“Smee?” The mate had an almost invisible smile. “Green around the gills, but on his feet.”

“Then he'll do.” Killian pulled out his spyglass and surveyed the island. The portal had brought the ship very near the place of his previous landing. The only obvious change since then was a plume of smoke off to the north. “We'll make anchor here.” No sense in risking an unknown coast with night drawing on. They had all the time they would ever need, now.

Sunset painted the humid air and brought a second sign that they were not alone in this land. Music drifted out from the shore – drums, and possibly pipes, though there was argument over that. Half the crew insisted they could hear the distant flute; others claimed not to.

“Pay it no mind,” was all Killian said about it, authoritatively enough that no one thought to ask what he heard. “We're likely to encounter stranger than this.” He withdrew early only to spend half the night in pacing, the rest in reading old entries in the ship logs. A few months of them were in his brother's spiky script. Meticulously coded lest they fall into enemy hands, they recorded the _Jewel_ 's shakedown journey and then Neverland. He skipped over his own laconic entry the day of Liam's death. The alchemy of paper condensed a round decade to lists: ports of call, ships taken, crew lost and taken on.

How to kill a creature that laughed at three inches of steel in its chest? Very quickly, perhaps. He traced the hook's curve with a thoughtful finger. They had always thought they would die together—badly, no doubt, things being what they were, but not alone.

Everything had a weakness, demons included. He just had to find it.

The drums ashore faded, left only the lonesome flute. Then that, too, fell quiet. The night watch passed. Killian went up on deck early and watched the sun rise on their first morning in Neverland. The thick green smell of the jungle rolled out over the sea.

“Ready the boat.” He saw a few uneasy glances. “You'll be returning to the ship. Come back in an hour. If I'm not there, continue on as you wish.”

“You don't want anyone to stay?” Smee gave the shore a suspicious look.

“No point. The master of this land may be a youth to the eye, but he wields magic.”

The crew rowed in silence and left Killian on the beach. The place struck him as eerily untouched. It might have been that same morning, as if the rocks and driftwood had replaced themselves for the occasion, if not for the changes in himself. There had been enough of those, to be sure.

He set off along the shore. If the one he sought had any interest in conversation, no doubt he would soon be noticed.

As before, the voice came from behind him.

“I remember you. Still lost, I see? Careless enough to lose a few bits, as well.”

“What dazzling perception.” He turned. Like the landscape, the boy looked untouched by time, and still cast no shadow on the sand.

“Touchy, touchy.” A smile creased the youthful features. “I did warn you.”

“A less elliptical warning might have been more effective.”

“But so dull. I do hope you're not here on some tiresome attempt at revenge.”

“Funny you should say that.” Killian adopted an easy stance. “However, you are not involved.”

“No? Revenge is a good game. We play it here quite often. I'm Peter Pan, by the way. Who is it, then, who has drawn your fearsome wrath?”

“Killian Jones. What do you know of the Dark One who dwells in the Enchanted Forest?”

Pan's lofty eyebrows rose in an expression of wicked delight. “Oh, this _will_ be fun. More than you can possibly imagine.”

“Enemy of yours?” He couldn't be that lucky.

“Hardly.” That cocky grin resurfaced. “Peter Pan never fails. What would I do with an enemy? And what do you have against him?”

“That's not your business, unless you plan to come to his aid.”

Pan laughed. “That would be funny, but not likely.” He looked Killian up and down. “Revenge against the Dark One. You do have pluck.” He walked a few steps down the beach, then turned. “How are you at games, Captain? At least, those that don't require two hands.”

He glanced at the hook. “It's surprisingly useful.” If only as a test of his own patience at the moment, not to pierce Pan's tongue. “What sort of game did you have in mind?”

“Oh, _lots_ of them. But first I want to know what you came here for, if your foe is somewhere else. We don't get many grown-ups in Neverland. It doesn't agree with them. You seem to have grown up a bit.” Pan gave him a doubtful look, as if unsure of his own diagnosis. “What are you here for?”

“I came to this land for time. I don't want anything in particular of you.” The price last time had been steep enough.

“Time? Really? We do have plenty of that.” An emerald shimmer sprang up around him. Pan floated up from the ground to perch in the fork of a downed tree. From that vantage, he looked up the shore at a domed headland just visible in the distance. “All that there is. But you came looking for me because you don't want anything? Quite the reverse of our last encounter, I should say.”

“All I would ask of you is that we not be interfered with.”

“We?” Pan cocked his head and looked up and down the empty beach.

“My crew and I.”

“Ah, that's wonderful! Even more fun than I expected. Let me think about it, while we have our first game.” He floated off his perch and spun in the air. “What am I?”

“Whatever else you are, you're not a child.” Something that had watched children, perhaps, and gave a knowing imitation of their innocent cruelty. He may, Killian acknowledged, be in slightly over his head with this business. There was nothing for it but to press forward. “I expect we can rule out vegetable and mineral categories.”

“Good start.”

“I don't know if anything immortal can be called animal.”

“I should certainly hope not.” Pan sniffed in mock affront. “Though there are enough of them on this island to offer good sport.”

“You're not a fairy, and I hazard that you're not an angel, either. Some sort of demon, perhaps.” No supernatural being he knew of quite fit.

“What's the difference? Only perspective.” Pan grinned. “But quibbling quite takes the fun out of a game—” He paused as Killian turned away, glance drawn by a movement in the trees.

“You no longer dwell alone here.” His hand drifted closer to his sword-hilt.

“Well observed. My audience grows restless.” Pan raised his hands to his mouth. At his imitation crow's caw, a dozen shabby figures emerged from the trees. All boys, some looked nearly to manhood, while others were yet children by any measure. They dressed in a motley of ill-mended rags and finery made for larger bodies, but their spears and bows looked functional. Their faces struck Killian as strange. Unlike Pan, they had shadows. “Mr. Hook, meet the Lost Boys.”

He raised a brow. “It's _captain_ , if you absolutely must.”

“Oh, I insist.” Pan surveyed his ragged troop with a smile. “Poor orphans all, brought from hardship and neglect to this paradise – all we do here is play games. That's heaven, right lads?”

“Three cheers for Pan!” They kept at it until their leader shushed them with a wave of his arm.

“I'll tell you what – Captain. This shall be our game, and the terms. Neverland does have rules, you know.” Pan adopted a stern expression. “You have your time. You have free run of this island, but know that the boys and I may wish to play.” His grin returned, bright and fierce. One of the tallest Lost Boys smiled, too, and ran a testing finger over the head of his spear. “How's that for fair warning? If you survive, and if you can tell me what I am – why, then, you might be permitted to leave someday, to pursue this unlikely revenge. What do you say?”

Killian gave the Lost Boys a dubious look. “Who is to judge the answer?”

“I will, of course.” Pan did a loop in the air. “They are my rules, so I always play by them.”

“Then I suppose I have no choice.”

“I could kill you here.”

“Fair enough.” There would be time to worry about a means of return when he'd found a way to end the Dark One. “We are agreed.”


	2. Imaginary Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Killian and the crew explore the island, Pan wants to play a riddle game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “...To him make-believe and true were exactly the same thing.” J. M. Barrie

On the third morning, it snowed in Neverland. Huge fat flakes drifted down and melted into the warm sea.

“Funny place, this,” Smee commented. He pulled down his hat over his ears.

“Gallows humor? You're fitting right in.” Killian studied the headland through his glass. Under a coating of snow, the place looked even more like a skull. The _Jolly Roger_ had rounded the island and returned to her point of arrival, getting the outline of their new home.

“It's one death we don't have to worry about here, sir. Never did like the thought of hanging.”

Killian saw a mermaid surface just off the headland. “That makes three deaths, as old age is impossible and boredom unlikely.” She lifted a hand to catch a snowflake, glanced toward the ship and dove again. He tucked the glass away. “We have leave to go where we like here, so let us do so.” The next task was to learn the interior, take stock of what was available to them. He picked out a half dozen of the crew who might not be entirely useless on land. Smee volunteered, to general surprise.

“I'm not used to spending all this time cooped up in one place,” he admitted. “And you never know what might turn up that's useful.” When a couple of the others gave him a skeptical look, the rotund new hand shrugged. “I was a good thief, all right?”

“Come along if you like, just keep up. We'll make for the peak,” Killian told them. “Should be able to see a good amount of the island from there. There's a spring, but it's no good, so sources of water are the first priority. And do watch out for the dreamshade; one scratch will do. The rest of you, take mermaid precautions and meet us around the other side of the island in three days.”

He still couldn't sleep well, prey to too many uneasy dreams. Maybe a change of environment would help. The physical pain receded daily, but he caught himself listening for Milah's step on the decks, for the tunes she used to whistle.... all one with the sea now.

Weapons and gear sorted, the group set off. Snow continued to fall, piling up on rocks and fallen limbs, melting into slush on the ground. Without anything resembling a clear trail, progress was slow. By mid-afternoon they had reached the base of the cliff. The climb had been easier with two hands and ten fewer years, but he was not about to let such minor details prove an impediment. Smee brought up the rear of the party, puffing but not complaining.

The cleft at the peak appeared unchanged, as did the spring behind its curtain of deadly vines. It did have a good view. Killian could see the ship, her sails a small bright spot in a gray sea and a gray sky. The _Jolly Roger_ had swung well out to sea, avoiding the reefs and their beautiful, vicious inhabitants. Closer to hand, the corrugated sweep of the island's shore stood revealed. It struck him as an excitable landscape. Hardly a hundred yards of it was smooth, being rather over-packed with inlets, promontories, and coves.

As far as they could get from both the cliff's edge and the growth of vines that hid the spring, the others rested and talked.

“Do you suppose this place has ghosts?”

“Don't be daft. People don't die here. How could there be ghosts?”

“You can still be killed,” the first crewman said. “There's no telling what sorts of beasts might dwell here.”

“I saw a ghost last night,” Young Tommy said, and for a moment all went quiet.

“Liar,” an older hand said, and cuffed him.

“Two glowing eyes,” Tommy said, his voice flat. “They didn't move for an hour.”

“You didn't say anything about that before.” Smee frowned.

“Didn't want no stripes for being drunk on watch. But I saw eyes.”

One may as well haul water in a sieve as try to keep sailors from superstitious tales. Killian let them talk, and looked over the terrain they had crossed already. It seemed very slight from this vantage, mocking the hours of walking. Sulky gray light filtered through the clouds to fall on rock and snow-covered trees.

“There's no such thing as ghosts.” Pan's voice came from behind him again. “Which is a good thing for you, I'd say. What are you doing up here? Little trip down memory lane?”

He maintained a deadpan tone. “Afternoon stroll.” If Liam was haunting anything other than the old king's palace, his spirit must be very put out about it. He waved the crew back from any attempt at intervention. “Just a talk, lads. At ease.”

Pan chuckled. “A stroll up Deadman's Peak, in the snow?”

Killian finally turned around to look at him. “I'm going to guess that you named the place.”

“Who else?” The green-clad youth stood on a boulder, looking at the vista with a keen expression. “This is _my_ land. You should remember that.”

Killian followed the direction of his gaze. “That's probably Skull Rock down there, then. The headland?”

“An excellent guess. Try another one. What walks all day on its head?”

Quite thrown, he cocked his head. “Beg your pardon?”

“Not the answer, I'm afraid.” Pan grinned. “It's a horseshoe nail, if you really don't know.” He gave a mocking salute and vanished.

That particular trick had already gotten old. “What the devil is he playing at now?”

A screech from above provided the answer. An enormous bird circled there on crimson wings. It had the bare head and neck of a carrion eater, but did not seem minded to wait for its visitors to drop dead. It stooped toward the crevice.

Killian drew his sword and put his back to the rock wall, but the bird had a different target. Not quite large enough to carry off a man, it was easily large enough to kill one. The creature's wings beat hard in the confines of the pass, whipping up dust and grit to blind them as it clutched at something red with its talons – Smee's hat, and perhaps by coincidence the head that wore it. The owner of both threw himself to the ground with an oath; the others scattered from the unexpected onslaught. A screech of pain echoed from the rock walls. The bird lunged back into the air, leaving Smee still in possession of his hat (and his head), as well as a freshly bloodied arm and shoulder; he dropped his knife.

Though it did not dare the cleft again, the creature circled above as if determined to keep them besieged. There was no retreat down the cliff face; they could not climb and still defend themselves. The opposite slope was gentler, but littered with fallen stones. Many yards of bare ground lay between the cleft and the shelter of the trees.

“Well done, Mr. Smee, and congratulations,” Killian said. “The creature appears to find either the color red or your person of interest. Either you can trust someone else with your beloved hat, or yours can be the honor of decoying it. Otherwise I fear we'll be camping here for far longer than would be comfortable.”

Dismay plain on his broad face, Smee grimaced but did not demur.

“We'll draw it off to the left there,” Killian said. “The rest of you, make for the trees. Watch out for the dreamshade.”

They drew up in readiness, the unhappy Mr. Smee clutching the red rag of which he was so fond. Their captain checked his pistol. It hadn't seen much action in recent years; the Enchanted Forest kingdoms didn't have them, and powder was damned hard to come by there. This particular occasion warranted the use.

On the signal, Smee started down the slope, angling away from the path the others would take. Killian gave him a bit of room, then followed more slowly. At that creature's size, grazing it wouldn't do any good; he had to be close enough for a good shot. The rest of them waited a few breaths, and then broke for the forest. Stones rolled and slid underfoot, minor rockslides outracing them to the treeline.

The bird gave a low, croaking call, and dropped toward them. Smee displayed a fine sense of timing – perhaps he was part rabbit – in ducking to the side. The creature missed its strike. For a moment it stood outlined, brilliant red against the scree, wings wide as it sought to climb once more. Killian's first shot went side. The second struck one scarlet wing near the shoulder joint. It still made a hopeless, flopping attempt to follow its prey on foot; its beak put a rent in Killian's coat before his sword taught it to keep its distance.

Once they reached the trees, nothing but angry cries pursued them. They tended to the wounded and pressed forward. Their march kept as near to a direct line as possible, up and down steep ridges, keeping note of what might be useful – streams and stands of good timber, and the places where game might lurk (according to Young Tommy at least, a precociously accomplished poacher before he took to the sea). Newly mistrustful of the landscape, they camped on high ground where they would be able to see anything that approached.

Anything but one creature, that is.

“It's your turn,” Peter said impatiently at sunset, though he could not have appeared there more than an instant before.

So this was to be a proper game, then. “One moment, if you please.” Riddles not being a pirate's stock in trade, and the sort of parties where one might tell them having occurred a lifetime ago. What will you break when you name it? Too easy. “I am the beginning of sorrow, and the end of sickness. You cannot express happiness without me, yet I am in the midst of crosses. I am always in risk, yet never in danger. You may find me in the sun, but I am never out of darkness.”

Peter's brow furrowed. “I will return at dawn,” he proclaimed, and was gone in a swirl of green smoke.

They kept watch in pairs. During the night the snow melted, and the forest returned to jungle. Peter appeared as the sun rose through a sky once again tropical in its colors. Killian preferred the cold.

“All right. What's the answer?” Pan asked.

“The letter S.”

Peter scowled. “We haven't much use for spelling in Neverland. There's no school or lessons here, and no one ever has to write anything down.”

“And we haven't much use for horseshoes aboard a ship,” Killian said. “You didn't rule out categories.”

“I suppose not. But no more letter answers.” Peter's winged brows remained drawn in a frown. “What lives without a body, hears without ears, and speaks without a mouth?”

“An echo.”

Pan sniffed rudely and disappeared again.

Smee grinned. “Didn't I say this was a f—”

Killian pointed the hook at him. “If you finish that sentence, your immortality will be a good deal briefer than you had hoped.”

“Yes, sir.”

They went unmolested for the remainder of the day. The jungle lay silent and peaceful, holding nothing to alarm them, and the march went quickly. At sunset, the master of Neverland returned.

Killian had one ready this time. “What begins and has no end? What is the ending of all that begins?”

“Death, of course.” Pan didn't seem pleased by the riddle, even if it was one that he knew. “My turn! A white dove flew down to the castle. Along came a king and picked it up handless, ate it up toothless, and carried it away wingless.”

He turned that one around a few times and got nowhere. “Do we get a night, or is that luxury only for you?”

“You may consider.” Pan waved a magnanimous hand and was gone.

Not that it helped. No one among the crew had encountered it one before, or could come up with an answer that seemed to fit. The night passed slowly and with little rest, and with no solution to the riddle.

“Snow melted by the sun,” was Pan's answer come dawn.

“I fail to see any sense in that,” Killian said.

“My rules,” Pan said. “And I say it's a fair riddle. Enjoy your walk through the Dark Jungle.”

“I'm beginning to sense a theme at work.” But Pan had gone. “Sharp eyes all about, lads.”

He killed a wolf with the hook later that morning. Between them the pirate crew accounted for two additional wolves, two panthers, and an improbably large serpent. Bruised, bleeding, and muddy from the swamp that had occupied half of the day's travel, they had the beach in sight under the last rays of the sun when Pan reappeared, blocking their path. More than one of the crew growled and went for his sword, only to find themselves frozen in place.

Pan wagged a finger. “No interference from the spectators, now. We have one last round yet.”

“They've been a bit more than spectators today.”

“You did bring them ashore. I don't think anyone was promised a _pleasant_ walk. Now, then?”

Killian sighed. “Whoever makes it, tells it not. Whoever takes it, knows it not. Whoever knows it, wants it not.”

Pan grinned. “That would be a false coin, Captain. Three rounds to me, and two to you. I win!”

“It appears that you have.” He eyed the youth warily.

“I always do.”

“So you've said. And now?”

Pan looked puzzled. “I won. What else is there? Until next time!” He flew off. Released from his spell, the men shook themselves and looked nervously at the nearby jungle, but no new menace appeared.

Aboard the _Jolly Roger_ , someone had spotted them. A lamp was lit. The boat put out to fetch them back. The ship was lively with talk that night of all they had found. Mr. Smee was accorded among their number at last by virtue of his wounds.

Alone in the dark, Pan's original question stayed with Killian. _What am I?_ What manner of creature would set out to shape a world to this form? No doubt riddles were told on all the worlds that ever were, so that was no help. What magical being knew about counterfeiting and scorned books? The more rude and malevolent sorts of fairy came to mind, but he had seen no wand in evidence. Anyway, fairies were monarchists through and through, and there were no kings in Neverland.

He had more pressing matters to consider.

Two weeks after their return, the first mate led another group into the jungle to gather fruit. They came upon one of the Lost Boys, shooting arrows across the path.

“You, boy. Out of the way.”

The boy – no more than twelve – looked at them in astonishment. “What did you say?”

“I said give way, boy, and mind your manners.”

“You're the stranger here.” The boy smirked. “Pan doesn't like rude people.” Small, nimble hands fitted an arrow to the string. “What do you say to this?”

“I won't warn you again.”

“No need. Tag, you're it!” He loosed.

Though the arrow only grazed him, that was enough for the dreamshade that coated it. A week later, they had their first funeral in Neverland. Two weeks after that, they found another ship.

 

(NOTE: Riddles were found on [this page ](http://savagelegend.com/misc-resources/classic-riddles-1-100/)and [this page](http://thinks.com/riddles/a1-riddles.htm) with a few modifications.)


	3. Smaller Savage Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...Lions, tigers, bears, and the innumerable smaller savage things that flee from them, for every kind of beast, and, more particularly, all the man-eaters, live cheek by jowl on the favoured island." J.M. Barrie

“Mermaids,” the captain of the _Lynx_ said by way of explanation for how her ship had come to this strange sea. “You can be sure I had the helmsman's ears for it, too. Where the hell are we?”

“Neverland.”

“Never heard of it.” A small, brisk woman, Captain Erin received his explanation of the place with an air of mild irritation. Short brown hair curled every which way and threatened to hide the sharpest eyes Killian had ever seen. She had sensibly declined to come aboard the _Jolly Roger_ , instead selecting one of the smaller islands as a good place to meet. A wide shelf of rock afforded a place in which they could talk without interference or chance of a hidden threat under the noontime sun. The ships stood off at a polite distance from one another. “They have any whales here?”

“None that we've seen. There is considerable wildlife of other varieties.” He kept half his attention on the sky as they spoke, wondering if Pan knew about his new guests yet.

“Unless they're worth money, not interested. And what brought you to these waters?”

“I'm looking for something.”

“Buried treasure?” Erin grinned. “Please don't try to tell me it's legitimate trade you're about. That was a rough crossing last night, and laughing too much might induce illness.”

“Not exactly that, no. But it need not be any concern to you.”

“Concern, maybe not. Interest? You never can tell.”

He gave her a more thorough appraisal, surprised. “For someone who appears convinced that she has fallen among rogues, you seem quite unconcerned about your person.”

“I didn't ship out yesterday.” She gave him a forthright stare. “That's a fine ship you've got and a hard-looking crew. I expect you could take mine. We'd give you a hell of a fight, though; if we're as far from civilized lands as you say, we've got nothing to lose. You don't look desperate.”

“There's no call for unpleasantness.” Not at this stage, anyway. Where one ship came, there would be others. _The Jolly Roger_ 's crew had made some experiments with the magic of Neverland, but Killian would rather not rely on ropes created by belief alone. “Perhaps we can do some business in the future?”

“Depending what's for sale, I might be tempted. But for now, I had best be getting back to my ship. They worry about me so.”

“Of course, Captain.” Neither unamused nor oblivious to the appreciative spark in her eyes, Killian filed it with other things that might be useful someday, and they parted ways. If Pan had noticed the _Lynx_ 's arrival, he wasn't interested enough to put in an appearance.

Days came and went, but the sense of Neverland was dream-slow. Every hour felt like a summer afternoon with nothing much that needed doing, or like the quiet space around midnight. When Pan went away, as he sometimes did for weeks at a time, the feeling of fugue grew stronger. There was no hurry to anything. Most of the crew soon ceased to mark the time.

Killian did not. Every inch of the ship was layered with memories of her. There she had been wounded in a battle; here they had had a furious argument, though he couldn't remember what about. There he had realized that he wanted nothing more in all the lands than to be with her for the rest of his days; here she had died.

Then came the splash, the cry to alert in the night – the gift of a suddenly-benevolent god, the Dark One's only son falling straight into his hand.

A complication, to say the least, but for all their poisoned weapons the Lost Boys were boys _._ They could threaten and bluster, but they feared Pan, and none of them were skilled at guile. Keeping Baelfire hidden turned into another game. The best thing to do when Pan visited the ship, as he did every few months or so, was to keep him talking until he got bored and left.

On one such occasion Killian decided to broach a subject on which he had long been curious. “No lasses dwell among you. Only boys. Something against women, have we?”

“Useless creatures.” Pan lounged against the ship's rail with his arms crossed, an attitude of ownership Killian would not have permitted from any mortal being that set foot on his ship.

“I'm afraid I'll have to differ with you on that point.”

A sneer crossed the elfin features. “Pleasurable company for an hour or two? Next thing you know you're saddled with a mewling little _parasite_.” Venom colored his voice beneath the veneer of disinterest.

He probed a bit deeper. “I suppose my parents would have agreed with you.”

“Of course they did. Some are better at hiding it, is all.” Pan played a few notes on his ever-present pipe. “I know you can hear this. No pretense of a loving mummy and papa for you? How sad. You're better off without the illusion.”

“Worse things happen.”

Peter clicked his tongue. “Admirably stoic. I suppose. Let's fight, shall we?” A sword appeared in his hand.

That this of all subjects made Pan uncomfortable struck Killian as worth consideration. For the moment, he could not spare the attention. Peter might be a boy to the eye, but he had a demon's strength and speed, and more importantly he could not be hurt.

“Of course Peter Pan would not have parents, I suppose.” Killian had reach and experience on him, and for all Pan's remonstrations could never take the matter as lightly as the master of Neverland did. It usually led to a draw.

“Of course not.”

“Because he's immortal, and anything that was born can die.”

“That's not true.”

Killian knew better than to push any farther, and contented himself with fending off Pan's blade. The hook certainly had its uses there. When Pan finally got tired of his sport and went away, though, Killian was left to wonder whether things were born that could not die, or if it was that Pan was not immortal after all. By the terms of their original game, he surely wasn't allowed to lie about his own nature.

They found a shipwreck a few months later. The remains of the _Quiver_ lay in a graceless shambles on the western reef, heeled over on her port side.

“Mr. Smee,” Killian said, studying the wreck. “Tell me what you make of this.”

“Um.” Smee squinted at the mess of wood and canvas. “Well, it's... really smashed up.”

“Inarguable, and yet less than helpful. How about you, lad?”

“How did it get here?” Baelfire looked at the sky. “There's no cities or anything.”

“ _She_ , lad. There are many ways to cross the worlds. That's not my concern at the moment. How has the weather been lately?”

Smee shrugged. “Uh... fine? Nice? A bit warm for my taste, but very pleasant, overall.”

“Indeed. No storms to speak of since our arrival, in fact. So what do you suppose snapped her masts like that?” The exposed side of the ship looked as if it had been in a collision, rails shattered and planks scored far below the waterline. “Tide will turn soon.” He lifted the glass again. “And it would appear that company is on the way.”

“Finders, keepers, captain?” Smee said.

“That is the usual rule. However.” Relations with the _Lynx_ 's crew had remained cordial so far. Killian returned his attention to the wreck, guessing at how long they might have before the rising water shifted her. He gave it three hours at most. “More hands will make faster work.”

The ships' boats neared one another just off the reef and the wreck.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Killian said, standing in the bow. “People will begin to talk.”

“Don't mind if they do.” Erin grinned. “This your salvage, then?”

“Absolutely. But we might come to some useful arrangement.” A bit of dickering ended with the loan of eight of her men in exchange for a percentage. The combined crews turned their hands to stripping the wreck of everything useful, working around the dead.

“Expect you're used to this sort of thing,” Erin said, studying one of those. The man looked as if he had been crushed to death.

“Are you going to tell me that hunting whales is a peaceful pursuit and free of incident?”

“Barely any different from badminton, really.” She grinned.

“What do you suppose did it?” Baelfire knelt on the slanted deck to look at another corpse. For all of his gormlessness, the boy was blasé about the mangled bodies. This one had lost a leg above the knee, more cleanly than any surgeon's knife could have done it. “There aren't any ogres here, are there?”

“Never heard of those buggers swimming. Wasn't a whale, I can tell you that. Wasn't all that long ago, either.”

By the time the rising tide threatened to shift the _Quiver_ off the reef and into deeper water where she would surely sink, she had been stripped down to the nails. Their captains found the splintered remains of the ship's boat adrift just off the beach, empty. A few pieces of shredded clothing had washed up along with barrels and other oddments.

“No tracks.” Killian nudged a broken jar aside with the toe of his boot and looked at the jungle. Not that anyone who had survived to reach the shore was likely to enjoy a long life there. “Perhaps this mystery is better contemplated from a distance, over a drink.”

“A man after my own—”

Out in the cove, something splashed out of time with the gentle waves.

“Just a fish.” Baelfire shaded his eyes with his hand. “Lots of fish?” A school darkened the shallows, jumping from the water, flopping across the exposed rocks in terrified flight. “Or. Um. That?” The water boiled. Innumerable tentacles rose up.

“Bloody hell,” Killian said, and drew his sword. The three of them backed up the beach, but the footing was poor and the tentacles came on quickly. He cut at one as it reached blindly up the slope; the rubbery flesh proved tough. Baelfire went down with another suckered limb one wrapped around his leg. Erin went to his aid with her knife and was knocked down by another writhing arm, nearly as thick around as she was. Killian pierced it with the hook to hold it still and brought the sword down hard. A second cut finally sliced through the tentacle, though it continued to flail aimlessly for some time.

Enormous though the squid was, it was not prepared for a combined assault in the form of cannon fire from the _Jolly Roger_ and skilled harpoons from the _Lynx_.

“Under the circumstances,” Killian said, “I think sixty-forty would be fair after all.”

“Fifty-fifty, pirate.”

They went to bed together a few months later, mostly out of boredom in the endless drowsing summer of Neverland, and it was... fine. Killian remembered how to play the game, and it moved at a measured pace to its natural conclusion. On what you might call the mechanical level, all was well, but he felt odd. It was like watching someone else's dance at one of those interminable formal affairs a lifetime ago – momentarily amusing, but sooner forgotten than the taste of the wine. Maybe it had been like that before, with all the other women, and he simply didn't remember. They parted ways amiably enough.

If nothing else, it reassured the crew that their captain wasn't losing his mind. Revenge was fine, they understood that. They had all known Milah for years, and mourned her in their own ways, but the ship demanded attention to the present moment.

Of course the peace couldn't last.

“I'm out of ink,” Baelfire said one fine, sunny afternoon.

“There's some in my desk. Don't go making free, now,” Killian added, more out of habit than real expectation that the lad would pry where he oughtn't.

He had forgotten about the picture tucked into that drawer.

Pan waited a whole two weeks to put in an appearance after that night, after the Lost Boys had departed with their unwilling cargo.

“I am very disappointed in you, Captain.”

“And why is that.”

“You lied to me about Baelfire. And here I thought you might be a friend. Did you teach that boy how to fight?”

“Might have showed him one or two things.”

“He is a spirited lad. He'll make a good Lost Boy.”

“You're welcome.”

“And you presume on my patience.” Pan wheeled around with a scowl. “That woman and her ship. I want you to get rid of them.”

“The _Lynx_? Why?”

“That's none of your concern. I did say I might ask you for a favor.”

“I don't recall saying that I would do you any.”

“I don't recall that you have any say in it. Do you remember what my shadow told you?”

“I have an excellent memory for threats, yes.”

“Do you.” Pan looked up at the sky and whistled. A dark shape emerged from the forest and flew toward the ship.

Killian watched its approach warily. “ _Your_ shadow?” So there was a ghost in Neverland, after all.

“Do pay attention for a change.” Pan spun in the air with his eyes closed and flung out an arm. He came to rest with his finger pointing at a sailor. “That one.”

“Don't—”

“Would you like it to be more than one?”

Seething, Killian held his tongue. A green mist descended over the open deck, holding the rest of the crew immobile as the shadow descended. They could see and hear, of course. The screaming went on for some time. After final wheezing gasp, silence fell. No one could move.

“I trust I have made my point,” Pan said.

“Crystalline. Have you a time in mind?”

“Oh, at your leisure, of course. But you will see to it, won't you.”

“Aye.”

They did that a week later, with no survivors.


	4. Shadow Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “...It is all rather confusing, especially as nothing will stand still.” J M Barrie

Smee coughed. “Captain?”

“Aye?”

“Just thought I should mention that you're sort of very close to the, uh... the vines.”

“I know that, Smee.” A few more moments passed in silence. Killian studied the dreamshade vines that grew thick around the old tree and waited.

Smee could not long remain quiet. “That was certainly something yesterday, wasn't it? Never thought I'd be famous anywhere.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, then.” Killian snapped open his spyglass again to see if Baelfire was still in sight down below. The boy appeared oblivious to being watched, though he moved with caution along the trail. What was he doing out in the forest alone? One of Pan's games, perhaps. A tense air hovered over the island.

“Well, some of the songs were less than flattering.” Smee shook out his hat and replaced it on his head. “But at least they get the color right.” Word had leaked back to other realms, through mermaids or fairies or Pan himself. The latest arrivals in Neverland had heard of Captain Hook and his crew.

 _Hook._ A tool and a task, nothing more. Something for the days when his left hand itched, forever unscratchable, for the the nights when memory refused to yield to the rum.

“No regrets?” he asked. With the trail clear below, Killian returned his attention to the dreamshade vines. They had all learned how malevolent the things were, springing unpredictably at a touch, or lying disguised by a harmless neighbor. “Regarding your provisional immortality.”

“None worth mentioning, captain.”

“Inclined to stay behind, then? The years will resume their standard accumulation when we go.”

“Jump ship, sir?” Smee looked offended to have been asked. “Never.” After a while he added, “Life's pretty funny, isn't it, though? Never saw this one coming, but... it's pretty good, compared to some.” A reflective expression occupied his broad face.

Killian decided against asking. Like most of them, the mate tended to keep his past to himself. Holding the vines at bay with, yes, the hook, he cut a few limber coils.

“Er, I would like to know what are you doing, though...?”

“Don't question, Smee. Bring those along.”

“Wh!—ahem. Aye, sir.” The mate used his jacket to preserve his hands from any scratches and picked the vines up, held them out in front of him like jewels in a procession as they started for the shore.

It went something like this, in the long Neverland nights:

The dagger made the Dark One, and the dagger could kill the Dark One. It would be hidden, or perhaps guarded.

Assume that it could be found. What then? He did not wish to take on the dagger's curse. The current extension of his life was more than Killian wanted; true immortality was a hell he did not want to contemplate. Nor was this a task to lay on someone else. His own hand and no other's would take that unnatural life, even if the blow was struck with his last breath.

Therefore, the dagger must not _kill_ the Dark One. But the dagger could wound him, where nothing else might, and bring him close enough to death for some other agent to work. Dreamshade could be concentrated, augmented perhaps with some of the island's other deadly growths.

The path snaked around the side of the hill. The shore and the ship came into view below, near the river's mouth.

“Now what's gotten into them?” Smee asked. Lost Boys flitted over Pan's camp like disturbed bats. They spread across the forest, leaving pixie-dust trails behind them.

“No idea, but I'd like to be well out to sea before they decide to involve us in it.” Not that it always worked, but sometimes being out of Pan's sight meant out of his mind.

That intentions meant nothing when the wind went still, of course, or blew only in fitful gusts like the breath of a sleeping beast. The ship made no headway at all that day, and the Shadow visited that evening as if carried on the restless breeze.

“The boy has escaped,” it said.

“Again? You lot really aren't very good at this, are you.” Hook leaned back against the aft rail and looked up at the glowing eyes. “So that was the source of all the excitement today.”

“He will be caught. You will send word if you see any sign of him.”

“Not if Pan's going to keep wasting my time, and my messengers for that matter. We didn't find all of the last one.”

The Shadow hissed. “If you send word of this one, your messenger will return unharmed, and Pan will be pleased. If you find him, and you fail to tell us so—”

“Screaming, yes. I recall.”

“Good. Sleep well.”

Killian watched the eyes retreat into the night. “Everyone in this place thinks they're so bloody terrifying.” Baelfire was alive for the moment; that was all that could be said for any of them. Of course Pan would find him – probably already knew where the lad was, only wanted to make a game of it. He went below to start figuring out how one distilled dreamshade sap.

*

“What in all the worlds are you doing?” Pan inquired.

“Following a crocodile.” Killian waded on through the swamp after the splashing sound.

“I can see that. What for?” Pan settled into a mossy tree above and frowned.

“To see what it does.” More accurately, to see how long it took to die with the latest batch of poison. Testing it on actual crocodiles was all the amusement he'd had in some time now.

“I had no idea you took such an interest in the natural world. Or the unnatural one, as this is.”

“It's surprising how much there is to be learned.”

Still evidently puzzled, Pan said, “They make good eating, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Not today, I think.” The splashing receded. “Is there something I can do for you?” He looked up at the boy in the tree.

“I don't know, let me think. The boys are being so dull today, and there's no one interesting about.” They moved along for some time without speaking. Insects hummed, and a breeze moved the moss-grown branches now and again, but the swamp creatures watched them pass in wary silence. “I'm sure you know this island well, after all these years.”

“As well as most who dwell here, I suppose.”

“I'm surprised that you've not managed to come across our mutual friend's trail by now.”

“Are you truly going to claim that you don't know precisely where he is?” No doubt Baelfire thought his cave well-concealed. Killian had kept strictly away from it ever since he spotted the place. The only thing he could do for the lad was not draw further attention to him.

Pan smirked. “That wasn't my question.”

“I've had other things on my mind.” The distant splashing stopped.

“Ah yes, revenge. And how is that coming?”

“Well enough.” There had been trial and a great deal of error, but he was on the right path now.

“Oh good. I do like to see people happy. Even people who don't properly belong here. That's what Neverland is for, isn't it? Finding our dreams?”

The hairs on the back of Killian's neck lifted. “I'm sure if you'd rather we left, we could accommodate you.”

“Not yet. Perhaps I ought to follow your example, and study the things around me.”

“If you must.” Killian resumed progress toward where he had last heard the crocodile's movement.

“You weren't a pirate when we met, as I recall. And look at you now. As ruthless as any I've ever heard of, across all the worlds there are. Such a complete transformation, and so quickly! Something to do with a heart, perhaps? Mysterious as barnacles turning into geese, _I_ think. But is it truly change, or revelation?”

“People do change, on occasion.” He felt things falling into place, or nearly so, links catching on the gears of thought—why it might be that Pan had not killed him, how it sometimes seemed that his questions were more for himself than for Killian, even as he refused to divulge his own nature.

“I don't think they do at all. You're far too good at this work. No matter how bloody and unpleasant.” Pan smiled. “You've done well. Done as I asked... mostly. Defeated every other ship that's come here and made a nuisance of itself. It's quite the pleasure to observe, I must say. But why is that? What is the secret? What is it that makes a good pirate, or leader of pirates?”

“We're a heterogeneous lot. No uniforms, as you may have noticed.” He spotted a pale outline in the water ahead; it did not move.

“Equivocation, captain? That's not like you at all. Perhaps I could say please.” He sounded dubious about the prospect.

“I'm sure there's no need to strain yourself to that extent.”

“Humor me, then”

“Follow-through.” Killian looked up at Pan, floating beside him with careless ease, at the position of the sun, and at the reptilian corpse. Four hours from dose to death; that was promising.

“Explain.”

“Make a decision, carry it through. Second-guessing kills more crews than making the wrong choice in the first place.”

“Is that so.” Pan's grin suggested that saying that might have been a bad decision itself. “I have just the thing, then. A game you won't soon forget.”

Bloody—

— _hell_. A babble of voices rose around Killian, echoing in the enclosed space in which he found himself along with the entire crew.

“Quiet!”

“Good, that's good.” Pan's laugh ran around the walls in the abrupt silence. “They listen to you, don't they. Take a look around.” Torches kindled themselves along the walls, revealing an oblong cavern. “Have you heard the saying, 'the deeper the lie, the more truth in its echo?'”

“Can't say that I have.” The second thing one noticed about the cave was that there was no way out of it. The cool, damp air did not move. “What manner of game is this, then? Surely it doesn't require so many players.”

“Follow the leader, of course. You've got a good sense of direction, haven't you? Handy for a sailor, I expect.” The walls trembled. “This is the Echo Cave. Have you ever thought about how many lies people carry? Like maggots in a corpse. The cave doesn't like lies.” The walls shivered. Two cracks appeared behind Pan and widened, less tunnels than crevices running off into darkness.

“I think I've figured out your riddle.”

“Oh?” Pan cocked his head and grinned. “Then all you have to do now is find the way out and tell me.” He vanished before Killian could object to this order of events.

“Put those weapons away, they're no use here,” Killian said. “Bring the torches. And stick together.”

Smee made his way forward, torch in hand. “But which direction?” The two openings yawned before them, identical in form.

“That way. If anyone falls behind, don't stop.” As soon as he set foot within the left-hand passage, the opening began to drift closed, although the way ahead remained clear. “Quickly.”

They moved at a brisk walk. Some kept swords or knives in hand and glanced behind them often, but no threat appeared other than the cave itself. The walls continued to tremble around them. The torchlit did not go far.

Three new openings formed ahead. A sailor poked his sword into the rightmost crevice, only to find it snapped in half as the rock crashed back into place around it. Another opening formed in its place, farther to the side. All three passages curved beyond the reach of the light.

Killian picked the center passage. It slanted down after a brief while, which caused muttering from behind. There was nothing for it but to press forward. Behind him came the grinding of rock and a cut-off shriek.

“Jeffries,” Smee reported as word had passed up the line. “He tried to go back.”

Another set of three openings loomed ahead. Killian hesitated.

“It's closing faster!” a man yelled from the rear.

“Left.” He wasn't sure what sense he was following. He couldn't be sure that he was following anything at all; perhaps whatever way he chose would turn out be the correct one. He did not trust Pan so far as that, however. He did his best to steer them in a straight line.

Some perceived their course differently.

“We're going in a bloody circle,” the second mate said at the fourth juncture. He struck off down the rightmost passage without a pause. Three others followed. What became of them was never known.

The maze seemed unending, now two choices, now four ahead of them. Some ways doubled back the way they had come only to straighten again. Sometimes the path canted upwards, then dove steeply, dashing their hopes. They could do nothing but hurry forward at a trot, then a run, however steep and treacherous the footing. One man tripped; he and the one behind him were gone before anyone knew it. The thundering rock ahead and behind made speech useless, made it impossible to track who had been lost.

They were down to one flickering torch when a dim gray patch ahead brightened into true light, when jungle warmth touched the chill dampness of the cave air. One after another, they stumbled out into the open.

They had been underground less than an hour. Killian counted heads, some of them leaning on nearby trees or on each other as they fought for breath. Fifteen remained of the twenty-nine who had started in the cave. He glimpsed movement above and turned, expecting some new threat.

“All you had to do was to tell it your darkest secret, you know. Something true and terrible, something that no one else knows.” Pan smiled and spread his arms in a parody of beatitude as he descended. “The caves turn quite docile, then.”

One of the remaining sailors drew steel and lunged for him. Pan waved a hand and froze him in place.

“Ah-ah. You know the rules.” He whistled.

“Afraid I'm fresh out of secrets.” Killian got his breath back. “At least, my own. You asked me once to tell you what you are.”

“I did.” Pan's eyes narrowed. The shadow he had summoned halted in mid-air when he raised his hand.

“I don't think there is a word for what you are, but I can say what you were. A man.”

Pan frowned. “I'm not sure—”

“And I think this game has gone on long enough.” Killian tensed as Pan remained silent.

“It is true,” the shadow said, eyes glowing in the darkness between the trees. “On both counts.”

“I suppose you did follow the rules,” Pan said. “Except for that one.” He pointed; the shadow lunged; a dying shriek echoed down into the cave mouth from which they had come. “And done better than most, come to think of it.... I will allow it,” he announced at last. “But I think we'll meet again.”

Not if I have a single bloody thing to say about it, Killian thought.

A week later, he said, “Follow the shadow.” His hook gleamed in the eternal summer light. The _Jolly Roger_ 's sails filled. The vial of poison lay snug in its resting place. “We're leaving.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed my little story! Being the obsessive sort of person I am, each chapter is inspired by something in the book. 1 -- In chapter 8, Peter and Hook play a game of Animal, Vegetable, Mineral. 2 - In ch 9, the Never Bird saves Peter by allowing him to use her nest as a boat. 3 -- “It was only in Peter's absence that they could speak of mothers, the subject being forbidden by him as silly." 4 -- There is an early sequence in which the Lost Boys, the pirates, and the Indians all follow one another around the island. I thought the book well worth reading, and it doesn't take very long.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me through the end. :)


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